


Pencils and Paperclips

by NeyMessi_FCB (Sherlockophobia)



Category: Sports RPF
Genre: Depression, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 13:59:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15196283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlockophobia/pseuds/NeyMessi_FCB
Summary: World Cup 2018, the competition where Lionel Messi will either win big or go home, and he won’t be going home in style. After the Croatia game where Argentina lost 0-3, Leo’s pride has been hurt worse than ever before. Being forced to live up to Diego Maradona’s name and with the lingering feeling of letting down his entire country, all he wants to do is disappear. Neymar won’t let him.





	Pencils and Paperclips

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, I hope you enjoy this fic. I’m not sure how long it will last, but I feel it might be short. I will add in more characters later as I write them into the story. I need to fix Leo. It’s breaking my heart to know he’s so devestated. It destroys me. I know they were eliminated, but I started writing this after the Croatia game. 
> 
> No sex in this fic, haha. I’ve never really not written sex. Let’s see how this goes!!!

__

_Devastation_. If any word could be used to describe the air of the locker room after their battle with Croatia, it was that. Messi, sitting on a bench, hands cradling his head, felt it the most. Croatia kept the ball from him every second he could and he only counted touching it about twenty times, Kun even less. A hand jabbed through his bare chest, crushing his ribs as if they were small twigs, and fingers enclosed around his heart, threatening to squeeze the life out of him. His breath hitched as he fought back tears, wondering if this was what depression felt like. He had no idea what he was going to say to his teammates, his family, or his Brazilian boyfriend. Everything rested on his shoulders and if he wasn’t sitting, he was sure he would collapse onto the ground. People were leaving him alone for now and he was thankful for it, but he wished someone would comfort him. Sampaoli constantly reminded him that this wasn’t his fault, that it was everyone’s fault, and he wasn’t alone, but his fans would never let him forget how they lost 0-3 tonight.

If they won, they were going to celebrate at a bar, and Leo really needed that. He needed the electrifying feeling of victory to rip through his body and his team to carry him around on their shoulders. Unfortunately, that was only going to be a dream, and the quiet murmurs around him reminded him of his failure. He couldn’t bring Argentina the World Cup, every single time he has tried for awards, he lost. 2010 World Cup, 2014 World Cup, and multiple Copa America games, especially Centenario. Since they lost, they’d probably crawl back to their hotel rooms, tails between their legs, and a solemn look on their faces. They were to play Nigeria next, but Messi couldn’t help but wonder if he should sit the game out. If he was able to, he’d scream at the top of his lungs and destroy everything in sight, but he was the captain and the supposed star player of La Selección and he had to set an example.

He straightened up when Higuaín approached him, eyebrows furrowed with concern, making him look older than he was. Pipa sat in front of him, legs crossed, and rested his hand on Leo’s knee as a sign of comfort. Leo stared at him in defeat, eyes dark and empty, the only movement coming from the gentle rise and fall of his chest and shoulders as he breathed. They sat together in silence, watching each other; Messi was glad for the company of his friend. He heard Agüero talking quietly from the other side of the room, but he couldn’t make out what was being said to Pérez. He wondered momentarily why Agüero was talking to him, but pushed the thought out of his head. This was all he wanted, a quiet chance to calm himself while sitting with someone, although Higuaín began to stand up as a paparazzi member burst into their locker room, uninvited. Players jumped in front of the flashing camera to block Messi from sight even though he didn’t bother to move out of the way. Security grabbed the man and removed the paparazzi guy from the room, issuing quick apologies to everyone involved.

Oddly, he didn’t mind the attention, because something deep inside him craved it; he wished his teammates would try to interact with him more. He couldn’t explain the desire since the rest of him wanted to close himself off to the world and hide. The primal sense of needing human contact attempted to take over and control him, threatening to rip him into pieces just so he could have some form of touch. If he was in a million pieces in a physical sense, people would try to put him back together. In the emotional sense, however, he wanted absolutely no one to even _look_ his direction. The world seemed like it shattered around him, little glittering pieces falling impossibly out of place. How could the earth be a sphere if he saw it as a pyramid? Sharp, angry points digging into his skin and forcing its way to penetrate his organs. A short gasp, head snapping up, because the pain felt almost real.

Back at the hotel, Messi wanted to scream and let Russia feel his pain at losing this game, but all he could do was fall face first onto the bed, attempting to hide away in the pillow. He let out a pathetic whine that startled him, so he rolled over to his back and stared at the darkness of the room. He fidgeted with his phone in his right hand, wondering if he should text Neymar. He knew his boyfriend played tomorrow, but he needed some comfort now. After choosing not to go to a barbecue with the rest of the team, he could only assume that everyone was worried about him. Still, he chose to be by himself and ignore society for a little while. His phone vibrated in his hand and lit up to show a text message from Neymar, wondering if he was ok.

_”Hey Leo, I saw the game. Are you alright?”_

His response came quicker than he planned, _”So you saw me fail?”_

_”I wouldn’t call that a fail, babe.”_

_”I fucked up, ok? Like usual. Do you think we could win the World Cup?”_

There was a short lapse in time before he got the next response. _”I think you will do well in your next game.”_

It wasn’t the answer he wanted, but he knew it was the answer he needed. Neymar wouldn’t make promises like that because he knew how much this World Cup meant to Leo; meant to Argentina. _”I suppose.”_

_”Why don’t you meet me for coffee tomorrow morning?”_

_”Don’t like coffee.”_

_”Ok, well we can find a place that sells Yerba Mate, lol.”_

_”K”_

_”9am, meet me at the lobby of your hotel. I love you, Lionel Andrés Messi Cuccittini. Even if you don’t wow the world, you wow me. Every single day. It will be ok.”_

_”I love you, too. Goodnight.”_

There was no response after that and Leo assumed he went to sleep. He grabbed the remote off the nightstand where he left it and turned on the TV, not bothering to change the channel. It was highlights of the match he played earlier and all he could do was stare at the bright light in despair. He saw every miss, every _A La Luna_ , even the zoomed in camera to Maradona’s face cringing and shouting. A few tears fell from his eyes and he was quick to wipe them away while the people discussing it questioned if Argentina could make it to the quarterfinals. His heart ached and all he wanted to do was crawl under the covers, call his Mami, and cry. Unfortunately, there was a 17 hour time difference from where he was in Russia, to where his Mami was in Rosario, Argentina. He whimpered and changed the channel to something else, choosing instead to watch a film in Russian. He didn’t understand what was going on, but he could tell it was an action film, and that was good enough for him.

After falling asleep to the film, he ended up waking around 5am. He blinked against the TV light and rubbed his eyes, groaning at the fact he had to climb out of bed. Leo grabbed the pillow and shoved it over his face, willing himself to go back to sleep, but it never came. With a huff, he forced himself into an upright position and squinted at the television to see what was playing. Everything was in Russian so he didn’t understand anything, but he could tell that it had something to do with an island in the Arctic Ocean. He shrugged his shoulders and rolled his head to stretch out his neck and, ignoring the movie, went to take a shower.

The hot water forced him to relax his body, almost like a hug enveloping him, and he wished Neymar was there to be with him. Why was he so weak? Not physically, but he was emotionally weak. People call him overly sensitive, a coward, a crybaby, an introvert, and other choice names he didn’t care to think about. He briefly considered seeing a therapist, yet the thought was replaced by the idea that only cowards and losers go to therapy, and that wasn’t him; maybe it was now. He didn’t know how to handle the pressure of being someone he isn’t and he hoped Neymar never had to feel the way he did. Never had to let his entire home country down the way he has each World Cup. Did he have to live up to Pele’s name like he had to for Maradona? He probably shouldn’t ask, so he probably won’t, even though the question was burning him as much as the water was. 9am could not come fast enough.


End file.
